While away the hours to recover from airport security, unsociable flight times and close proximity to people.
I sat on the private beach of my hotel. The combed golden sand that stretched out passed the roped section to the grey roar of the Gulf of Benin.
I watched as hawkers paced a deserted beach, armed with their goodies and a keen eye to spot a rich tourist.
Women, impossibly balancing plastic containers on their heads looked longingly at the loungers, hoping to grab someone's attention.
I looked at the strapping young men trotting along the beach on horseback. I presume this is a tourist thing, but profiting off an animal's misery has never been my thing. They did, however, remind me of the Bedouin people of the Wadi Rum, Jordan.
I also watched a lone white woman paddle on the fringes on the choppy waters. She appeared to be looking for shells. I wondered what her story was and thought that people must look at me and think the same. Why was I here, alone?
The waters aren't made for swimming. The current is too strong, even for accomplished swimmers.
My fatigue was growing, as I lay watching the world and reading On The Road. Kerouac's words were ringing true to anyone's travel adventures. That transient, out of body feeling of being a stranger in your own life.
Security is tight here. There's uniformed guards at the entrances and I saw a car being inspected with mirrors at the gates. This was an enclave restricted to the privileged.
I wondered if my African experience would be as fulfilling at those white, middle-class Europeans who come over here to build schools. Then I remembered, I hate the false altruism of helping those less fortunate. The arrogant, Jesus-like escapade into a third world theme park. And self-congratulatory photos taken with little black children.
